Can't You See
by damigella
Summary: Angst and drama after Season 7. Physical and emotional suffering, adult themes. Eventual slash. Suicide attempt, serious medical condition.
1. Chapter 1

They've removed my cast, which means forty days have gone by. Forty days without House, or his voice. I keep repeating to myself that if he were dead I would know but I'm not terribly convincing.  
>I wake up in the night to check my cellphone is fully on. No one calls. The long conversations with House in my head have gone from anger to sadness to longing. I wish he would give me any sign of life.<p>

* * *

><p>Nine weeks. Cuddy has been paid off and has retired her charges, House no longer needs fear penal consequences. I used my power of attorney, and now his stuff is in storage, along with most of mine. I'm trying to sell the condo and I'm renting a tiny place with as little memories as possible. It makes no difference. I still worry about him every evening, wake up every morning hoping to find a text message and am always disappointed. This morning I cried. It was the first time and I'm afraid it won't be the last.<p>

* * *

><p>Three months without House. The new Dean has downsized and moved the diagnostics department, which now consists of only Chase and Remy. I couldn't stand the sight of the janitor removing the name of House from the door and called in sick. Spent the day watching tivo'ed Monster Trucks. I don't know if I cried but I don't think so. I didn't eat, either. I've also written the letter of resignation as Head of Oncology and am working on a request of unpaid leave for personal reasons. My mother phoned and I told her all was well.<p>

* * *

><p>No news of House, four months. My leave starts next week, to begin with for a month. My office is packed. I did cry. Remy invited me to lunch, looked meaningfully at my eyes. She thought and thought. Then she told me "He's fine, you know. Just vacationing." She paused, searching for relief on my face. I'm not sure what she found. She added "I've heard from him more or less once a week, I'll let you know if anything changes." She didn't mention you coming back. She didn't hear the sound I made, or so I hope. I thanked her, then went to cardiology and got checked. My heart works fine, so the pain must be psychological. I cried again at the bar, in front of three empty vodka Martini glasses. The bartender was kind and smiling, but I'm not interested. I just want the damn pain to stop. I sent you three text messages today. I'm not sure why. As I toss in my bed all I can think of is Remy's smile. If you would call me once a week, would I not mind a death sentence? I do not know, cannot know. But I envy her. I imagine your voice as you greet her from a bar, describing some cute girl. As you used to do when we went drinking together. Would she tell you if I were sick? But I'm not sick.<p>

I went through all the emails and texts I got from you since you broke up with Cuddy. It was painful and served no purpose. I still do not know why you did what you did, or where you are. Why you call her and not me. I don't know why I suddenly try to remember the spelling of judgeamental.

I drop the empty bottle on the passenger's seat. It's three am and raining. Soneone called from the hospital yesterday. It seems my leave was over and I didn't notice. I slept next to nothing last night, chatting with you about our next vacation together. I almost believed in it. I start the engine, then force my foot on the accelerator; the Volvo purrs, then roars. I resist the temptation to latch my safety belt, feeling very stupid. Maybe I should close my eyes? Call your name? I am so tired and drunk I don't quite remember what I'm doing, or why. The sound of your laughter, like tinkering silver bells in my memory, is the last one before a merciful darkness engulfs me.


	2. Chapter 2

Coming back to consciousness is weird. Not painful, but not pleasant either. Maybe the same happens at birth? No way to know. All I know is that I suddenly remember what I was trying to do, and it clearly didn't work. Crap. Damn Swedes and their safety features. I can't move anything nor feel any part of my body. They must have flooded my system with the good stuff, including a safety limit override. House would be so envious. House. Wherever he is. I feel a touch on my hand before the darkness returns.

* * *

><p>This time it's a voice that wakes me up. Pettersson, the replacement radiology head - she isn't shouting, but the coldness in her tone reminds me of a winter in Umeå or Kiruna or wherever her ancestors came from.<p>

"The surgery was a success. The temporal bone is healing and the brain swelling has gone down. I cannot understand why you would complain - you can't have anything to object to Dr. Wilson's treatment."

"We just cannot know what his real damages are until he gets out of the coma he's spent the last week in."

Chase's voice comes from far away. The door? I can't turn my head or open my eyes.

"And no one properly evaluated the effect of putting in a coma a person whose brain was flooded with alcohol and antidepressants." Remy sounds gentle and caring. So why is it I feel only rage when I hear her voice?

"We ran all the tests we could think of and honored your every request. I understand your concern, Dr. Hadley, but your friend will be fine."

"I hope it for you as much as for him."

The last speaker is unexpected, and surprisingly close. House must be sitting near the bed. I wonder whether he can watch his favorite soaps here before my brain switches off again. 

* * *

><p>"Is he in pain?"<p>

Is that concern for me in House's voice? If so, how sick am I?

"Not yet, but he probably will be. Waking him up was your idea anyway."

I struggle to open my eyes, but discover one is heavily bandaged - and the one's that open is my lazy eye, I can tell it's light but not much more. Eventually my hand finds its way to my temple, assessing the relationship between the bandage outside and the mounting, dull pain within.

"Wilson? How are you?" I can't see him, but House has noticed my eyelid opening. Concerned fingers brush my wrist, follow the scar from the fracture. House is here, for me.

I force myself to speak, even though my throat hurts. "I've been better. Glad you're here."

"Thirteen called me. I've come as fast as I could."

God. The pain I had hoped to kill forever has been waiting for me. Except now I'm hooked to a heart monitor, so everyone in the room notices.

"Are you so sure this is good for him?"

Dr. Pettersson's tone is harsh. House doesn't answer: what must be his fingers start unwrapping a bandage I didn't know I had on my left hand. "Move your fingers and toes, please Wilson."

Please? I must be in deeper shit than I thought. Or at least I might be. I pull and push, and someone checks I'm moving.

"Great. If you can stand a bit more pain, I'd like to examine your head. Nod if you agree."

I nod. He doesn't know what a hell my life has been lately: physical pain will be a welcome distraction. Delicate fingers - can they be House's? - flicker around my temple. When he speaks again, he's so close I can feel his breath on what is probably a freshly sutured wound.

"Look at me, then move your eyes slowly sidewards, then even more slowly your head."

The fingers are now cradling my head. I try to do what he asks but cannot. It's a very long handful of seconds until I admit to myself what the problem is, and I hesitate in the fear that mentioning it aloud will make it real. I then reject this thought as crazy, and force myself to speak.

"I cannot see you, House. Nor anything else."


	3. Chapter 3

I can't remember the last two days. That is, I can, but I prefer not to. At least I managed to avoid thinking of Remy again since she seems to be off somewhere. So, unfortunately, is House - he vanished again. No explanations, no apologies. I wonder why I expected him to do anything else. Where this desperate longing comes from to hug him and cry about my lost dreams, my shattered life - about my having managed to fuck up even my last chance at a decorous exit. At least I've shouted so much at the therapist that she has stopped insisting that I call my parents and let them know. In fact, she has stopped mentioning them at all. I never told her what caused the accident, nor gave her any hints that House may be more than an acquaintance. 

* * *

><p>"Dr. Wilson? Please concentrate. I need to talk to you. And look at me."<p>

I laugh at the unknown woman in front of me. I so wish I could look at her, see whether she's young, let my eyes caress the curves of her body, work their magic on her soul. Pantypeeler House used to call me. Yet another part of myself I've destroyed forever.

Small, soft female hands grab my own, place them on unknown cheeks. "I thought you knew what I meant. Touch me, that's how blind people look at faces."

The word blind has been so far carefully avoided in my presence. Who is this woman? She seems to be Asian, no longer in her first youth but probably not older than me.

"My name is Yu Caoxi. I'm an ophtalmologist at UPenn, and the one who operated on you."

Yu? The up-and-coming genius that Lisa had so wanted to hire, who had refused to even come for an interview?

"Dr. Wilson, I have bad news for you. The retinal detachment in your eye is complete and irreversible. Dr. House suggested an experimental treatment and we did try it even if you didn't quite fulfill the requirements, but finally he had to agree with me that it was serving no purpose. Your right eye is blind."

She tightens her hold on my wrists, pushing my fingers on her own face until I can feel the moistness at the corners of her eyes. I parse her words and am surprised at how difficult I find it to accept their meaning. A small part of me wants to cry, a deeper one wants to ask what role was House playing in the story. I finally find my voice again.

"Why?"

I can feel her sigh an instant before I hear it. "You banged your head in the accident, thus provoking the detachment. I could probably have repaired it if it had been noticed sooner. Your left eye is unscathed."

I can't resist laughing, and I don't try to hide my anger. "As good as it ever was, right? It's a miracle I can tell light from darkness with it."

"Now that is indeed the case, but in principle your brain could learn how to use it. Dr. House helped me evaluate a number of experimental protocols and a couple of them would be very fit for you. We could put you into the trial with no cheating."

Yet another person that gets to talk to House. I've probably become too boring. Boring blind ex-oncologists are no fun. It finally dawns on me that he's probably gone off somewhere with Thirteen. I hope it's a spud gun competition and someone blasts his eyes off. His eyes. At the thought I will never see them again, even in the unlikely case he would speak to me again, my tears start falling. I pull my hands free and hide my face as sobs shake me.

Her voice is surprisingly gentle. "There's still hope, Dr. Wilson. Dr. House-"

"Please stop mentioning him! What does he want from my life? He's neither friend nor family, just an ex-colleague that broke my wrist." I am shouting and cannot stop myself.

Soothing fingertips trace my cheekbones, removing tears as her other hand draws circles on my back. "It was Dr. House that talked me into coming here and operating on you. He'll be back soon and will be able to take care of you when you go home at the end of the week." 

* * *

><p>"Hi."<p>

"You're back. Dr. Yu told me you claim you want to be my caregiver - did you forget to mention your drug abuse issues?"

"She knows I'm an ex-addict."

"Ex? Couldn't you be honest once?"

"I am. I've been through three months of rehab and I'm clean. OTC painkillers, gabapentin, tens unit and massage, but no drugs, alcohol or smoke." There's a pause but it's too short for me to react. "No kind of smoke, including recreational."

For a moment relief floods my system. He's safe. His addiction won't kill him. Nor anyone else. Then I realize I have no proof that this is the truth.

"Why should I believe you? And why should I want you to care for me? I can afford a nurse, you know."

There's a very strange cough, then my right hand is held by strong sinewy fingers and moved to an unknown destination. "Let me care for you, please." By the time I realize that the brief physical contact was with a pair of lips and soft facial scruff, my hand is alone again.


	4. Chapter 4

Oncology personnel have been visiting me regularly. Today it's Sandy's voice I hear, my personal assistant. Her "Good morning, Dr. Wilson," sounds surprisingly happy. I realize how much I've missed happiness around me.

"Good morning to you! Actually, you sound remarkably content today. Are there good news from one of our patients that you're here to give me?"

The question is stupid, since I haven't seen a patient in almost two months. And yet it isn't, because some stay with us much longer than that.

"There are indeed good news, but they concern me personally. I'm getting married and moving to New York. I've come to say goodbye, but I do hope you'll be able to attend the wedding. You'll get an invitation in braille - they make some really great ones."

"I'm sorry to lose you, Sandy, but I'm also very happy for you, congratulations! And I hope I'll be able to attend." Lose her? She would probably have lost _me_anyway. There are very, very few blind oncologists, and I very much doubt I could be one.

"Thank you, Dr. Wilson. I'll miss you, too." She hugs me lightly as another person enters the room and stands by her.

"Did you tell him whom you are marrying, Sandy?"

"No, I figured you would prefer to do so personally."

Understanding hits me like a truck. Things are indeed very different from what I had imagined, and I struggle for words.

"Sandy, are you going to marry Dr. Hadley?"

I swear I can see her smile. "Yes, Dr. Wilson. And we both would like you to be there."

I really smile myself, for the first time in who knows how long. And then I frown again.

"Does House know?"

They both laugh. "Of course he does!" Remy says. "After all, I know stuff about him no one else does, it wouldn't make sense to have secrets. Especially when there's no reason to be secretive."

The pain hits hard, again. But it's not really news, so I get over it quickly. "There isn't any, indeed. So are you leaving PPTH too, or will you commute?"

"I am leaving. I'll enroll in a study at Columbia and they're giving me a halftime position there. Poorly paid, but it's a way to keep my license alive."

"Now I have to go, Dr. Wilson," Sandy chimes in. "Can I… can I kiss you?"

I nod, and when her lips brush my cheek lightly something warm and liquid drops on my face. Then she stands up and walks, almost runs away.

Remy shakes my hand. "Good luck, Wilson. You and House will probably have more time together than Sandy and I, but try not to waste too much of it, will you?"

With this, she's off as well. What does it mean? I'm confused. I'm desperate. I want House with me so much, and yet I never want to see him again. Ha ha ha. I never want to be in his presence again - as for not seeing, that's pretty much a given.


	5. Chapter 5

Technically speaking, I'm not blind. My left eye works perfectly, but my brain never learned to use it - the problem went unnoticed as a child, and later it was at most a nuisance. Which unfortunately doesn't change the fact that I now can see little more than the difference between light and darkness, and occasionally a feeling of movement.

When something bad happens, it is human to try and find out a cause, or better, a culprit. Dr. Yu says I maybe damaged my retina already when I fell in front of Cuddy's house. It maybe became a bit loose, or maybe not. And then there was the crash with no safety belt. She said such retinal detachments were more common before safety belts became mandatory.

In plain English, it's mostly my own damn fault I'm blind, with a contribution from my long-dead family doctor who didn't perform routine tests when I was a child - except that they weren't quite routine yet, and he was an old man practicing in a little town who knew nothing of recent protocols. And of course, a huge serving of bad luck - I could as easily have detached the retina of the non-seeing eye and I probably would barely have noticed.

I haven't seen House for more than two weeks. When I ask about him, I get only meaningful silences.

* * *

><p>The psychotherapist is a nice woman. She makes me discuss all kinds of things, from my fear of the dark as a child to the latest technical devices for blind people. The only topic I declare off limits is any mention of House. She says that she cannot help me if I won't let her, but luckily doesn't insist. On the other hand, by patient confidentiality she also doesn't share my request with the rest of my medical team.<p>

Dr. Yu insists I should try the experimental protocol for the lazy eye that House has proposed: apparently he discussed it with her extensively. She finally agrees on delaying the decision since it appears the next opening is in a month. She says she's even surprised that it's so soon, since usually the waiting time is much longer. I don't bother mentioning that the head of the project is an old friend of House's from his student days.

My parents call once. I tell them I am currently hospitalized but it's nothing serious and they shouldn't come. My mother's voice sounds relieved; we spend the rest of the time discussing my father's bypass operation. I explain to her again that I'm not a cardiologist and the one who is following dad is one of the best in the country, trying not to call attention to the fact I'm footing the bill. She still insists I should come and take care of him, or them, personally as soon as I'm physically able to. I don't dare tell her, yet. I don't know how long my lies will keep making sense, but I can't face this discussion nor a meeting with her now.

I cry myself to sleep every night. I don't tell my therapist, who is quite satisfied with how well I'm adjusting to my handicap.

I've now received the declaration that I am officially blind, and have started to learn Braille and how to walk with a cane. A cane. The irony is so thick I'm afraid to stumble upon it and fall, as I stumble over so many things on the first day I try to use it. I'm told one learns. One gets used to it.

Today I went to the bathroom by myself for the first time. I wet myself a little bit, on a foot.

* * *

><p>My cellphone rings. That's one of the things I learned first, answering the phone, and I got the nurse to add ringtones for selected numbers - namely, my parents, my elder brother, and House. Yet, the ringtone is a generic one.<p>

"Dr. Wilson speaking."

"Hi, here Dr. Tucson from Blue Skies Clinic, Lambertville. May we talk now, and are we private?"

Blue Skies Clinic. The name seem known to me, but where from? If it's an hospice, it's one I use rarely. Maybe it's just a small hospital needing a consult.

"Yes to both. But before you tell me what this is about, I must inform you that I'm currently on medical leave. If you need a consult I can recommend very good oncologists at Princeton Plainsboro, though."

There's no surprised voice at the other end. "This is a personal call. I want to talk to you about Gregory House."

This is definitely not what I expected, although it juggles my memory and I remember where I heard the name. It was one of the alternatives to Mayfield I researched. A better one, in a sense, but much more monastic, almost prison-like. They took a very hard line in their rehab protocols.

"Was he a patient with you?" My answer should have been that I had no interest in talking about Gregory House, but it wasn't. A different part of my brain which didn't involve rationality got to control my mouth first.

"He is, now and for another forty-eight hours. He voluntarily checked himself in here over three months ago. He would have finished earlier but he left when you had your accident. He has since been readmitted. I am in the position to tell you that his tox screen is still clean, and has been so consistently since he detoxed here. I am authorized to disclose to you, or to any person you authorize, all his medical results since he checked in. He manages his pain with ibuprofen, gabapentin and physical therapy. No alcohol, smoke, or any recreational drugs."

"Why should I believe you?"

"You shouldn't: I'll send proof in any way you want. We're court-licensed and have to keep our records open to state and federal inspection, but you have now access to Gregory House's because he gave permission. Again, you can also delegate someone to come here personally."

My heart is racing. I don't know why, since after all I want to have nothing to do with House. Not even this House who really detoxed. Because caring for him was never good for my health and happiness. And yet I still do.

* * *

><p>Two days until discharge, two after the phone call from Lambertville.<p>

"Hi. It's me, officially drug-free now."

I knew, of course. I heard his pace the moment he stepped out of the lift. The best defense, as usual, is attack. Except I don't know exactly what I'm fighting against.

"Morning, House. I now know more than I ever wanted to about your health, and I'm not sure why."

"I wanted to convince you I really detoxed. The hard way. Now I'm clean, I want a new life."

House sounds sincere. Concerned. I make an effort not to believe him, not to trust him. It takes me a while o find the composure needed to answer.

"You want it, and I'm definitely getting one, whether I want it or not. So why are you here?"

His hand reaches tentatively over my arm, rests lightly over the skin of my wrist. I can't help it, my hair stands on end all the way from the shoulder to the fingers.

"I want what I wanted last time we saw each other. You'll be going home soon: let me care for you. Please."

If it were anyone but House I would assume he's crying. But House? Just fooling with me. Playing some crazy little mind game of his own.

"I don't need your pity or your help. Especially since I know neither would last - it's just a passing whim of yours. Until you feel like disappearing again. Maybe hurting me before." My hands are shaking and I feel close to tears. I'm scared. "Please go, House. I'm tired."

"Wow. Did you put the wrong foot on the floor first this morning? I just want to help." Is there just snark in his tone, or is there also pain? I wish I could look into his face and see for myself, although the face of a good poker player is no big help. I wish I could see his eyes, no matter why. I force myself to change line of thought, to rekindle my anger.

"You can't help. No one can. I'm blind, in case you forgot. I'll never diagnose a cancer or any other disease again. Excuse me if I'm bitter about it."

"It's no reason to be bitter with me, it's not my fault your doctor or doctors were too incompetent to notice your lazy eye and fix it when it would have been easy to do so."

There is truth in what House is saying, and that makes me even more angry. "I don't want to discuss how your behavior contributed to my blindness, but trust me, it did! Now just get out, goddammit, or I'm calling security! And don't bother coming back!"

A nurse rushes in, alerted by my screams.

"I never like to overstay my welcome."

I hear the well-known rhythm of limping steps, punctuated by the cane, fade away in the corridor. I cry and cry and cry until the nurse calls a doctor, who injects me with something and I soon fall asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

I had been worried about returning home, but I shouldn't have: being out of the hospital feels good, and the little I can see is enough to navigate the few and familiar rooms. Still, I'll need help. Dr. Yu arranged for someone experienced to assist me for the first weeks. He'll both help me in everyday life and teach me some of the new skills I need, such as using an adapted computer, completing the basic instructions I got in the hospital on how to be blind and self-sufficient. I'm kind of satisfied with myself, and as I sit down on the couch with a beer (luckily there was some left in the fridge) I almost feel happy.

I do not precisely know what is in the pills the psychiatrist has given me but they seem to work incredibly well. I took one before leaving the hospital and fell calm and relaxed, not bothered by the fact that my helper is late. I can't call him since I only had his number on my cell, and the nurse couldn't find it anywhere this morning when she helped me pack, but I'm sure it will show up again when they clean the room tonight.

I can even think of House without feeling any kind of pain, because after all why should I? Just because my former best friend begged me to let him help me and then vanished again? And then showed up and pretended nothing was wrong? Former being the keyword, of course. I have no need for friends or family. I'm self-sufficient.

The doorbell rings, the helper is (I press the button and my new watch chimes four oh nine) not even ten minutes late. I stand up and open the door without even checking who it is - and regret it the moment I'm kindly but forcefully pushed away, and a person walks into my apartment. More accurately, a limping twerp.

"House. What do you want?"

"As I said, I want to help you."

I would be angry but I imagine this is what House expects, so I just laugh as to a joke.

"Thank you, but there's no need to, as I'm sure you know. The person Dr. Yu helped me hire will be here soon; he's a professional and we won't need you at all."

"He would have been here already, if his contract hadn't been canceled." There is an undeniable satisfaction in his voice, a happiness at a successful prank I hadn't heard since the chicken bet... oh my God, so long ago. My heart grows heavy as a collection of pranks each way in our shared history flashes before my eyes. Focusing back on the present requires a conscious effort.

"What... how did you do that?" I shake one more happy pill out of its bottle and swallow it.

"I just called and explained we had arranged for me to take care of you. I think he checked with Dr. Yu, and she thinks I'm the best for you, she was impressed by how much I knew."

My hands go to my temples, but the pill works wonders. "No unsolvable problem. I'll call him again and we'll reschedule."

"You can't very well do that, you know?"

"What? Why?"

"Because your cell's in my pocket."

Should I have guessed that?

"I can still use the landline, I don't know his number but I can call the hospital, or, better, the police."

"You can't do either. Your phone is missing."

I walk to where it usually stands, and am not surprised to notice it's gone: I feel my way around until I can feel an empty socket in the wall. Damn. Well, I can still knock on some neighbor's door and use their phone. I step quickly to the door but my ankle gets tangled in something (possibly a cane) and I find myself sprawled on the floor.

House helps me up. "Wilson, why won't you let me help you?"

"Because you never cared a damn for me? Because I've tried to help you ever since the breakup with Cuddy and all I got for my effort was a broken wris? Because you couldn't be bothered to call me once in months and you talked to Thirteen every fucking week? The same Thirteen who knew you were injecting cancer-inducing rat poison - why would you bother mentioning this to your supposed best friend, who accidentally is an oncologist? Much better to perform self-surgery in a bathtub than to ask me for help, of course."

I'm shouting and crying and can't stop, however ashamed I feel about House witnessing my self-pity party.

"Why don't you go and drive her and her girlfriend mad for a change? See if I care! Just get the fuck out of here!"

I have managed to escape House's hold, but find myself swaying and end up sitting on the couch, my head in my hands.

"Is it because of me that you tried to off yourself?" There definitely is something like concern in House's voice. And yet words like "sorry" remain conspicuously absent.

The problem is that House is still House, that is one of the most brilliant minds in US medicine. It's hard to hide from him, and all I can do is deny and hope for best.

"It was an accident."

"It wasn't and we both know it. You tried to kill yourself, possibly because of me."

I manage to stop crying, and I try to forget how red my nose must be now. "Well that's past anyway. Next time I'll kill myself because my life is completely pointless. Now get out."

"Let's stop this useless discussion, just give me a chance to make you trust me again. A little time to talk."

I nod before my rational, angry brain has found the energy to shout "no!" , to remind him that there had been ample time to talk which he chose to spend in an undisclosed location, too far for me but not for Thirteen.

Deep down, I do want House to care for me. I want to trust him. I just don't think I can, and yet the prospect of facing a handicapped life alone terrifies me. I wonder whether House was similarly afraid after the infarction. And whether trusting him would be easier if I could look in his eyes. God, how I miss them.

I finally compose myself. "You can stay for dinner, then you're out of here for good and I'm free to do whatever I want."

I swear I can hear his smile. "Especially if what you want is asking me to stay."

"Don't count on it, House. I'm done with you and your so-called friendship."

House stands up abruptly, limps as fast as he can to the door. Of course. How stupid was I? He's already on his way out. I'm an idealistic idiot.

"I'll be back in ten minutes, I have to retrieve my stuff from the car. In the meantime you can start thinking about what you want to have for dinner. As you may recall I can actually cook."

* * *

><p>Of course there's no food at home, so House just calls the usual Chinese place. Using not only my credit card but my cellphone. During the meal we ignore the issue, as by agreement. I relax a bit and pretend everything's fine, that we're back at one of the so many take away dinners we had shared over the years. After all we're sitting quietly side by side on the couch, and I don't really need my eyes to ferry lacquered duck to my mouth with chopsticks.<p>

The spell is broken the minute House, unconsciously I hope, switches on the TV, clicks until he gets the Discovery channel, then gasps and switches the TV off.

"I guess we need to talk now," he says with a sigh. "Ask whatever you want, and I'll answer honestly. I want you to trust me."

My heart is beating fast in my chest now, but I keep more or less rational. I argue when I would want to scream.

"Here I am blind and helpless, locked in my own apartment by a criminal addict, and this should make me trust you?"

The laughter in response may well be the saddest sound I ever heard House uttering.

"Ex-criminal and ex-addict, still I can understand your concern. But if I left you free to avoid me there would already be a restraining order against me, and I wish you could give me a chance. I got sober for you, I even..."

Here he stops, abruptly, giving me a chance to intervene in his monologue. To let out my blind anger. Blind.

"You got sober for me? Without telling me? How very believable, House! Because you care, right? Go on, tell me, what else have you done for me, eh? What else?"

I can hear him breathing hard near me, in a strange way I'm not familiar with, and he doesn't say anything for a while. A long while, giving me time to concentrate on the unusual sounds. I'm frightened out of my wits when I realize he's crying, and I cannot resist pushing forward a confirmatory fingertip to his face, finding proof I am right.

My whole hand is grabbed and held by strong, trembling fingers.

"I went to jail for you, Wilson."


	7. Chapter 7

  
>"What the fuck are you talking about, House?" He's still holding my hand, not letting go, however much I pull. "Is that even true or are you trying to fuck with my mind?"<p>"Calm down, Wilson. It's true, but I understand that my choice of what and when to tell you about myself might have been unfortunate in the past."<p>

I take a deep breath. "You can say that loud."

He's not holding me tight anymore, but as he talks, his fingertips slide up and down the back of my hand. A touch as light as a feather, and yet it makes me shiver; I cannot find the force to pull my hand away, although I probably could.

"I came back because my lawyer let me know Cuddy had withdrawn her charges against me - thanks to you. Actually, the only person I missed... well, never mind. Unfortunately some of the crimes I was accused of were prosecutable even if no charge was filed, hence I still had to undergo a trial. I should have done time, what with my precedents and the attempted homicide, but my lawyer did a great job insisting it was the hospital's fault I was running around full of incapacitating drugs. I negotiated an agreement and they forced me to spend months in that cesspool in Lambertville, which was barely better than a prison. The only sense in which it was an improvement over Mayfield was the lack of group therapy, replaced by physical work."

House accepted to go into a prison-like rehab, and all I can think of is that he never told me, nor he asked for my help in the process. He's sitting near me, caressing my hand, and we're still so far apart.

"Did they make you work with that leg?"

There's a tiny laugh, or maybe he's coughing. "No, the other inmates did heavy physical work, I was given menial duties. Toilet cleaning, dishwashing, household chores. Boring but not as much as group therapy."

Humiliating, I think, my heart aching for him. And suddenly I realize that for a moment I've been totally concerned about him, as I used to be. When we were still friends. When I still cared.

"But then, why did you go to jail? And what would I have to do with it?"

"I left the facility before completing detox and without authorization when Thirteen called to say you had a car accident, and were probably dying. I realized then that I had made a mistake by not letting you know what I was up to. I had thought I would have time to see you once rehab was behind me, and suddenly it wasn't even clear whether you would be alive at dawn. It was the night between Friday and Saturday and no one able to sign me a permission sheet would be at work until Monday morning."

"They put you in jail for visiting a dying friend?" I feel stupid as I speak. The penal system doesn't respect even family ties, much less friendship. It's just... it's House, and it's me. As if this were enough to give us special rights.

"They had no choice, really. The best the judge could do was slow down the procedure so that I could be with you until you regained consciousness. After that Dr. Yu wrote a letter saying that she needed me for consults, and I got a reprieve. But then I had to do time, and after that complete my rehab. I got the minimum, since I kept my anklet on and there was proof I never left Princeton Plainsboro, plus I was having tox screens every day."

My head is spinning, in part by trying to make sense of what I heard and in part because now both of House's hands are touching mine, and the combined shivers from each arm make my whole upper body sway. When I finally speak again, I can't recognize my own voice. My need to look in House's eyes now is so strong I struggle not to whine.

"So, you went to prison because you chose to sit near me in the ICU after the accident? Even though I was unconscious?"

I try to say this was stupid, but House interrupts me.

"Yes. And you weren't always unconscious, although you have no memory of that time. You talked to me a lot, in fact."

I suddenly notice that his fingers are no longer just brushing the hair on the back of my hands; they have extended their soft touch all around, including the sensitive palm and fingertips, and are now carefully inspecting, on either hand, the skin folds between each finger and the next.

"I first thought you were conscious, then I slowly realized that while I was gone you must have taken the habit of speaking to me in your mind or possibly even aloud. I'm sure you can guess what you told me, even if you can't remember any of it."

I barely nod. My reddening cheeks and my ragged breathing are answer enough, and I feel unable to resist as House holds my wrists and pulls me closer. The next words are spoken very low and so close to my face that I can feel his breath on my nose.

"You asked me how I could have cut all contacts with you, how I could be blind to the fact that you had already suffered so much and now I was piling on the pain, so much so that the broken wrist became irrelevant in comparison."

I can feel his heartbeat against my ribcage. It's almost as fast as mine.

"You said you had decided to drive drunken and stoned hoping that the pain would stop. Added you must be in a Paradise you never believed in because you were suddenly with me and could see my face..."

House pulls ever so slightly back from me, as if he has suddenly noticed he's way too close. The sentence that made him silent spurns me to talk.

"I so wish I could really see you. I miss your face so much."

I shouldn't have said that, of course. But telling some of the truth gives me a minor relief, as a cool gasp of wind in the middle of a wildfire.

"You can. Let's do this now."

I haven't yet asked "how?" when I feel two warm hands bringing mine to a stubbly face.

"This is how you're supposed to look at me, right? Remember what Dr. Yu said."

I can't think anymore, and apparently it's no longer needed. My fingers, who seem to have developed an independent willpower, glide first around House's eyes, exploring wrinkles that I'm sure weren't there last time I saw him. Not so many, not so deep.

My right hand then proceeds through his hair, longer than I remember - House managed to avoid a crewcut in prison, it seems - and I can't stop the fingers of the left as they travel through a stunningly soft stubble to the lips. When my index finger glides between them and starts exploring their inner lining I realize I have gone too far; I pull back abruptly and sit on my hands to prevent any further interaction. I'm so angry at myself that I find my voice again. My usual, rational voice.

"House, we had agreed you would stay for dinner. Now dinner is over, and I want you to go away: I need rest. Please leave my cellphone behind and replace my landline phone on its shelf."

"As you want, Wilson. I'll just say goodbye now."

My ability to think fades away as strong arms pull me in a tight embrace. It's so good it's intoxicating, and I allow him to cuddle me for maybe a minute before I find the strength to push him back. I'm embarrassed and thrilled at the same time. My first instinct, though, is to make sure it won't happen again.

"There's no need to grope me like that, you know?"

"That's not what you said after the car crash."

I feel cold and hot at the same time, as his fingers interlace with mine, while one thumb starts exploring the inner side of my wrist, rubbing small circles whose purpose could be to measure my heart rate but whose effect is to send that rate well into dangerous territory. It's an incredibly intimate gesture, and my hands feel on fire - which probably speeds up my thinking, or at least veers it in the right direction, and I suddenly understand what House means.

Oh God no. No. This can't have happened. NO!

"You told me that what you felt for me became clear only when I was gone, that the pain and the longing got sharper every day I went missing, that you're sure it's the real thing. More than your wives, more than Amber."

I manage to talk. A very few words, and it's a titanic effort. "You...you knew. All these days in the hospital, you knew."

"Yes. I knew you loved me, because you told me so. I only feel pretty stupid for not knowing before." 


	8. Chapter 8

I sit on the couch, still faintly feeling the warmth of his thigh against mine, and I wait for him to get up and leave my apartment and my life.

"Wilson, I... I'm sorry. I should have told you earlier. I should have talked to you openly from the start, about the rehab, the jailtime, and about this. But my first concern was your health, and once you had blindness to deal with I couldn't bring myself to raise yet more issues. I'm not so good with words anyway."

Finding words is painful indeed. I just wish I could curl up in a ball and die. But I need to know.

"Why are you here now? Surely you realize your presence hurts me, that I'd rather be alone. Find my own balance, my own life." I want to add 'Forget you,' but I still find it hard to lie.

"I'd say my absence hurt you more than my presence so far. It was enough for you to give yourself a severe handicap, and it could have killed you. I don't trust you not to do anything stupid if I leave you alone."

I pull out my pills and juggle the bottle, the tinkling sound meaning health and safety. "Don't worry. I won't get so sick again. See? Antidepressants that work."

House lets out a deep sigh. Followed by a deeper one. "I... I helped your psychiatrist select those pills, Wilson."

"Because of course you know better than a specialist, right? Never mind all he studied and you didn't." I shout without caring who can hear me, so lost in anger that I have no sense of shame. House doesn't shout back; he just sighs again. I can feel his weight shifting uneasily on the couch.

"Wilson, I know what's in there. Starch and low-dose beta-blockers to help keep your blood pressure under control."

I feel like I've been hit. "You mean the best antidepressant I've ever had is ..."

"A placebo," he swiftly completes the sentence for me. "Sorry, Wilson. But I don't trust the placebo effect in the long run."

My head is spinning, there have been too many surprises in the last few minutes. The happy pills are starch. House knows I love him because I told him, and instead of laughing or running away he wants to stay and help. And he has excused himself. Admitted fault, that is. I replay his words in my head, wishing hard I could see his face, check in his eyes that he actually meant it, that he wasn't screwing with me, his eyes chuckling at a too easy prank played on his blind ex-best friend...

I cannot stand being in a room with him any more. I find my way to the bathroom first, to drink and cry and pee, and then to my bedroom: I randomly discard my clothes (something I have been taught not to do, of course, will make it hard to find them again) and curl up under the comforter in my underwear. I close my eyes and wait for sleep, hoping that when I wake up the world will make sense again.

* * *

><p>My stomach growls, and there's a bad taste in my mouth that reminds me I didn't brush my teeth yesterday evening. Yesterday evening. Memory returns, bringing pain and bewilderment, but no more understanding than yesterday did. I don't open my eyes immediately (I've learned that it's better this way) but grope my way to my watch and press the button.<p>

"Six forty-three, a.m."

I may as well get up. After the shower I feel better. It's warm at home, so I don't bother looking for the discarded clothes; I just wear clean briefs and t-shirt and go to the kitchen, trying to remember where the breakfast ingredients are. And I stop at the door.

"Good morning. You didn't ask me again to leave so I assumed I could stay. Your couch could be more comfortable, though."

I don't need to ask what he's doing: the room smells of fried bacon and freshly brewed coffee. I try to speak but he pushes me firmly towards a chair.

"Eat first, you're still underweight. We'll talk later."

As I did yesterday, I find it easier to agree.

* * *

><p>To my big surprise, it sounds like House is tidying up the kitchen. I can almost hear him over the Bach concerto streaming from my stereo - he has brought his own music. I'm about to ask how much else he packed and how long he expected to stay when the telephone rings.<p>

"You better pick it up," House yells over the water noises, "and go chat in the bedroom. It's a private call."

I slowly find my way to where the landline phone sits, exactly where it has always been, and press the answer button while I walk to the bedroom. And I almost fall down when I recognize the voice at the other end of the line. "Wilson? How are you?"

It's private indeed. I whisper "Just wait" and in two steps I'm in the bedroom, the door closed.

"Good morning, Cuddy. How's life in Florida?"

I can hear her chuckle. "Great. Nothing like a small child in the household to appreciate a frost-free winter." She pauses, and when she speaks again her tone is completely different. "House told me about you. I'm so sorry, Wilson."

It's good hat I'm sitting on the bed, since my legs wouldn't probably carry me now. "You and House are on speaking terms?"

"Remy sent me an email the morning after the crash; said she was sure I would want to know, and added that House was at your bedside. I may not be a genius like Greg, but it was clear to me whose idea the phone call was. A few days later she called again and asked me for help in contacting Dr. Yu on Greg's behalf. Not too long after that I got a letter from him, a handwritten, paper letter with a stamp on." Her voice was strange. Calm and yet deeply emotional.

"It was an apology, Wilson. He wrote that he was sorry for what he had done and that, although he felt he had had a right to be angry at me, what he did was a crime and inexcusable. He hoped Rachel and I were starting to get over it and told me he was willing to do anything that might help, including undergoing therapy, paying further damages, or joining some kind of AA for formerly violent domestic partners."

I hold the phone as it's unreal. This cannot be. Not House.

"I took a long time to think about it. Finally I let him know that any further contact should go via my lawyer. Three days ago he sent an email, with an update on your condition and a request to call you this morning. To tell you he had apologized because, and I quote, 'Wilson wouldn't believe it otherwise.' I called the hospital and talked to your therapist about it, and she encouraged me to do so. Said it might help you, so I hope it did."

I thread my fingers through my hair. "Probably it did. Except I'm too upset to decide that right now. This is so unexpected."

"Believe me, it was unexpected for me, too. I read that letter so many times it started to tear in the middle fold. I don't know what happened to him. He seemed so different."

"What did he say in the email? Did he explain why he wanted me to know?"

There was a pause on the other side.

"I'd rather not answer this, Wilson. You should ask him, though."


	9. Chapter 9

I take my time in dressing - not easy, and I'll need help to organize my closet so I can still wear matching colors. Of course if House lived here and helped me select clothes in the evening... God, I'm so stupid. I could be a teenager as far as my ability to dream the impossible goes.

Finally I have no more excuses, but just as I get out of the bedroom I hear the front door opening. "Grocery shopping, will be back," he shouts, followed by the door banging closed behind him.

I check everything as much as I can. The kitchen is clean and tidy, and after some diligent searching I discover that the clothes I discarded yesterday have mysteriously found their way into the laundry hamper. My fingers meet also something unexpected there. A pair of boxers, high-quality satin cotton, smooth as silk. Still with the starchy feeling and sharp folds of new underwear that has been worn only once after purchase and not been washed yet. Not mine.

I search more, and identify also a t-shirt with the same smell as his deodorant - fresh and barely noticeable. I sit down on the tiles and keep smelling. It's only when the trace of his scent has gone dull that I go back to the bedroom and start trying to coax the computer into reading the newspaper to me.

* * *

><p>I can hear House limping in, and I leave the laptop to go to him.<p>

"Do you need help carrying the groceries? I may be blind but I'm able-bodied."

"Nah, I agreed on home delivery. They'll be here in the afternoon, we can go grab a sandwich for lunch. You're paying."

A smile finds its way to my lips. It's good to remember the old times. House takes my hand and leads me to the couch, making sure we sit near each other, but not too close. I could try to protest, but I don't.

"Wilson, will you let me stay here now?"

I swallow, trying to gain time. "I don't know."

"That would be because you love me?"

His voice tone is completely serious. Even the dreaded four-letter word comes out without a hint of mockery. More like it were a life sentence, which in a sense it is. I'm trying to figure out how to answer this when the doorbell rings. He's faster than me, and soon comes back.

"Fed-exed official letter for you, I had to sign a receipt. From PPTH."

What could this be? And why sent like that? I'll be going there again for a check-up tomorrow. It makes no sense.

"If it's not in braille you may as well read it aloud, House."

I hear the envelope being torn, the sheet of paper unfold. "Nope, just a boring administrative letter. Dear Dr. Wilson, I'll skip the salutations-" House pauses. The silence lengthens, becomes scary.

"What does it say?"

He sits down, but not too near. As if I could read over his shoulder. "Your license has been suspended, and you're now on leave for medical reasons. It's paid, but if you cannot go back to work within six months your contract will be rescinded." House pauses before going on. "And they also ask whether you prefer to receive your severance pay as a monthly allowance for three years or as a lump sum. Apparently they don't believe you'll go back."

I fumble in my pocket for the happy pills. Then I remember, but decide to take one anyway.

The doorbell rings again, and this time I follow him; it's the grocery delivery. They had a free slot and decided to try and see whether we were home. I whisper loudly in House's ear to tip them well, so much so that the delivery guy laughs and says "Don't worry, he gave me five bucks."

House shoos me off, claiming he needs to be alone to cook properly, and insisting it's time for me to practice some Braille anyway.

He obviously wants to avoid discussing feelings, and so do I. I didn't know I could be so much of a coward. And yet, how far can avoidance go?

* * *

><p>We're sitting on opposite sides of the table, and my second cup of coffee is empty. I refuse a third. I'm scared but avoiding the issue makes me more sick than facing it, and the solidity of the wood between us makes me feel a bit more at ease. Protected. Whether protecting me from him, or him from my hands overriding my brain I don't know.<p>

"House. I really think you should leave. I appreciate your efforts but now please go."

Hs cup hasn't moved for the last ten minutes at least. It must be empty, or its content cold. Suddenly he grabs my hand, his arm stretched across the table. I wonder whether he touches me on purpose, and decide he probably does.

"There's something I need to explain."

"Do I have a choice whether to listen or not?"

I hear a soft chuckle. "I don't think so. Except, of course, you now have a phone: you can call the police and say I threatened you."

It's clear that he doesn't believe for a minute I would do it, and neither do I. I sense his fingers relaxing and pull my hand free.

"Speak. But I won't believe a word."

He gets up, brings the cups to the sink. When he comes back he stops behind my chair, rests his hands on my shoulders, and for a fleeting moment his touches my hair, or maybe I just dream it. He limps away, lies down on the couch. There's no music and the rain has stopped, the room is so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat, and occasionally his breath, a bit ragged as if he had been running.

"During my stay at the Barbados, I met someone. Well, at first I paid her, but when my money started running low I didn't hire her anymore. So she just came by whenever she needed a break, and we also talked a lot."

"Don't tell me there's a prostitute somewhere who's as stupid as I am."

"She might be. She eventually insisted I had to go back to my life. When I said I couldn't face it, she said there must be someone back where I came from who would stand by me. I explained to her what I had done, but she was stubborn that someone would still care."

"So that's when you thought of Thirteen, uh? Too bad Sandy came in the way."

House's moving around. Like he's not comfortable. Maybe his conscience is bothering him? I laugh at my own idiocy. House doesn't have a conscience.

"Rosario found me a therapist. Well, a drunkard ex-therapist, but anyway. He helped me realize that your friendship had always been the one thing I could count on."

"Except when I asked you to risk your life for Amber, and then vanished. Sold you to Tritter. Or threw you out for Sam."

I know he's heading there. Or I would in his place. Because I do have a conscience, and it has been reprimanding me enough while House was away.

"Except in very extreme circumstances. But still. I thought it was the one relationship I hadn't managed to screw up. I thought I could build my life on our friendship, since love I was no good at. And I decided to go back to you, to us, with a clean record. So that you would welcome me back."

"And with Thirteen you needn't right? Because she cares for you more than I do? Or because she counts on you to kill her?"

I must have missed the moment when he stood up and moved. Now he's sitting down closer than he was. Too damn close. I inch away.

"No. I like her and we're there for each other, but we aren't really friends. If things had been different - but they aren't different. Anyway, I was planning on you and me going back to our lives as they were when I came back from Mayfield. Before Sam, before Cuddy. Before I threw my life away."

"And then you discovered I had thrown my life away, more than you did." I try to laugh, but the sound that comes out of my lips sounds more like a dog's bark. My throat aches.

"Yes. When you said you loved me, my first thought was to run away. Jump on a plane and go back to Rosario."

"As if you could have done that with an anklet. Did you promise her you'd be back?"

So typical House. Yet another human loving him, getting their life and happiness destroyed as a consequence. And yet he had apologized to Cuddy. House being House, I can't avoid wondering whether he could have hired an actress ot play his ex on the phone, but of course it's impossible. It had been Cuddy calling.

"No. She has her own life and two kids with her boyfriend, who will be out of jail soon. I promised I'd let her know when I got my life back together."

"Well, this is not going to happen as long as you stay here. You need a license and a job, and good luck in finding either."

House's answer is in so quiet a tone that I have to strain to hear it, near as we are.

"I have got my license back. I also have job offers. Some."

"Good. Then get yourself a place and leave me alone. Better, do that in a different timezone. Or continent."

I'm angry now. He must be making fun of me again. I almost killed myself and destroyed my future for this revolting piece of human garbage, who flaunts he can get a job when I obviously can't even keep the one I have.

"Wilson, I want to stay here with you. Although I do realize it will be difficult."

His voice sounds so gentle that my anger scales down to irritation. He really seems sincere. I shiver at the possibility that he is, what this would imply. Then I remember I am no longer the person I once was, and that this is probably what makes him hesitate.

"It will be difficult because I'm blind and jobless?"

"Because I'm scared of love. I hurt the two people I've loved in my life so badly they won't even talk to me on the phone. If I were to do that to you as well I couldn't live with myself."


	10. Chapter 10

I scan his words again and again. Oh God. I can't believe it. Did he just say he's afraid of loving me back? Could he? Does he?

I take a deep breath, and immediately hope and happiness fade away. I must have misunderstood. Of course. Just wishful thinking on my part, dreams that cannot come true. Another deep breath, and another, as my heart slows down its mad race and slowly goes back to its normal rhythm.

A hand lands gently on mine, its unexpected warmth speeds my heart up again.

"Wilson?"

There is unmistakably tenderness in his voice. "Remember, I've had a lot of time to think after I found out that what you wanted from me wasn't just friendship anymore."

That's true. I'm scared to hear what comes next.

"My handful of same-sex experiments goes back to college, and we're both damaged goods with multiple failed relationships behind. It may very well not work. But we could try."

I open my mouth, then close it. I wait. The hand above mine puts slightly more weight on my fingers.

"Wilson, don't kick me out of your life. Please."

He really sounds sincere, damn it. I hide my face in my hands. It doesn't make a difference since I can't see anyway, but it still helps me to collect my thoughts. Apparently there's more bitterness inside me than I can hold.

"I gave the best of me to that fucking hospital for years, and the moment I'm down they just kick me out. Not even the decency of talking to me in person. How can I ever trust anyone or anything again? And you in particular?"

"Dr. Cortes had warned me that it would not be easy. The written apology to Cuddy was actually her idea, to help the process a bit."

I'm not sure whether I'm more surprised by the idea of House asking Princeton Plainsboro's Head Psychologist for advice, or by her ignoring years of mockery and actually answering. "You talked to Cortes?"

"I had to apologize to her first. Profusely."

I can hear his smile. "You... did you also talk to my therapist?"

"No, of course not." There's a short pause. "But Cortes did. She made sure your therapist didn't insist in discussing me."

I guess I'll have to thank her. If House doesn't use her help just to break my heart again.

I hear a chair moving, and soon House pulls me up to a standing position; my face is pressed against a shoulder whose smell I know too well. A soft beard brushes my forehead lightly, is replaced by warm breath, then by two lips. As they press against my skin the beard makes contact again, sending shivers through my back which is held by two strong, welcoming arms. I lean on him and then I pull back, as he staggers under my weight: his thigh must have given way.

"Maybe we should continue this discussion in a more comfortable place."

He leans on me, heavily, as we slowly move towards the bedroom. When we arrive there, he steps away and limps over to the window, pulls the thick curtains closed: the light remains switched off and the room is plunged in darkness. I collapse down on my side of the bed and take out my pants before curling up under the blanket in my underwear.

House sits down on the other side: the mattress moves under his weight as he removes his sneakers (I think they must be sneakers, at least they're rubber soled) then, so it seems, his socks. I can hear plastic being screwed, - unscrewed really, since the next sound is dry swallowing.

"Sorry. I forgot my pills."

There's pain in his voice. Physical pain, not psychological. He forgot a painkiller to talk to me. I desperately want to believe him, and at the same time am overwhelmed by fear. It's dark and I'm blind, and yet I keep seeing, alternately, the car driven by House coming towards me, and the view from inside my Volvo skidding, losing control, heading straight for the cement wall.

House stops massaging his thigh and moves closer to me. His left hand glides under my neck, pulling our heads closer, although not to the point of touching.

"Thank you for making me comfortable. For caring for me, now and in the past."

Is it the first time House says thank you? I search my memory, but all I can think of is the present, his warmth in front of me, the quiet ebb and flow of his breath close to my ears. Being in the dark together suddenly feels right, and I wonder if this was House's own idea, or a suggestion by Cortes.

Then I have an idea myself. A crazy one, but then I am officially crazy now.

"House, can I look at you? I mean, at your whole body, not just your face?"

The pause may not be noticeable for others, but I've known him for close to two decades now.

"If it helps you to trust me."

"Can you remove your jeans, please, and come under the comforter?"

This time the silence stretches out before an answer comes. "Sure."

Soon there's warmth all along my right side; I turn towards him, place my hands on his shoulders, and start gliding down. He gasps when my fingertips brush his nipples through the thin cotton jersey; almost moves away when one gets hooked in the band of his boxers (another new pair, it seems). But I carefully avoid his crotch and my hands land on their final destination, on either side of his right thigh.

I can feel House's body stiffening near me, but he doesn't move away while my fingers study the disaster area. I've seen it before, of course. But this is different, I think as I trace the boundary between scar tissue and healthy skin, then feel the very special texture of old scar tissue, which continues deep below the skin. My right hand skims down to the much subtler traces of the self surgery.

I don't know why, but he feels fragile to me now. Defenseless, and I feel the need to comfort him as I often wanted to but never did when I was healthy and whole. I cover his thigh with light, closed-lipped kisses, starting just below the rim of the boxers and going down until the knee, then I move up again, this time using the tip of my tongue and not just my hands to investigate all the scars, old and new.

House drinks air like a resurfacing diver, and I realize he has been holding his breath since I started touching the scar. "Should I stop?"

"Yes." Pause. "No." Pause. Swallowing sounds. "I don't know," he breaths in small gasps now, "I thought I'd never allow anyone to do that. But Cuddy did, and... I didn't stop her."

It takes trust, I realize, to give me access to this most vulnerable part of himself. And the darkness is at the same time a help and a source of fear; he cannot read emotions in my face any more than I can read his.

"Do you miss her?"

I wish he could forget her. Completely. They were not a good match, and their love only made them hurt each other deeper. But it is impossible.

"Every day, Wilson." His whole body is shivering now. He grabs my hand, not roughly, and drags it to his face until my fingers meet wetness, a wetness with a salty taste.

"I used to go back with my thoughts again and again, analyzing, thinking what I could have done differently. But of course we never had a chance."

"No."

There's resentment in his voice. "So why did you try and push me in her arms? Insist I should give her what she wanted, even though it drove me insane, drove me back to drugs?"

Now it's my turn to shiver. I grasp his thigh as a raft, and I struggle to find words. To sink in the dark corner of my memory where I store painful recollections of mistakes. "I'm sorry. I just hoped... You had wanted her so long."

"Yeah, well. I also wanted Vicodin, but neither were good for me. Come closer."

His arms are strong, and he easily moves me so that our bodies are level; he hugs me and our thighs end up intertwined.

"Do you trust me now?"

Do I? I find the answer and it surprises me.

"Yes. You won't leave."

"I won't leave, and you will not throw me out. Because we've both seen that we're better off together than apart."

And then it hits me. Out of my lips pours a jumbled mess of love declarations, of regrets for lost occasions and past mistakes, of desperation at the idea of a parasitic life, unable to work, unable to have fun, unable even to see the beloved face in front of me.

House listens in silence, waiting for me to be done. Who knows when that would be, were it not for the fact that some part of me is so happy it's noticeable. I feel my cheeks turn crimson and pull my hips away while I try to disentangle my legs from his.

"I... I am so sorry House." I don't know what I was saying anymore, and I'm terribly ashamed by my lack of self control.

House's soft laughter fills the room, makes me relax. He pulls me close again, my erection nestling against his warm, soft crotch. "No need to worry. You're a man, it happens."

He pauses as his fingers delicately caress my forehead, my eyebrows, my eyelids. It takes me a while to understand it's his way to look into my eyes. I let my thumbs brush his eyelashes, thinking that if I could have my sight back for one second I would use it to look into his eyes.

"How long have you been having sex only with yourself?"

I should be offended, but I just answer. "Since Sam."

"Christ, no wonder you went mad. I should have checked back when I gave you ten days to get laid, but I was so confused back then." He pauses. I think he's chasing away bad memories. "We'll have to fix that, eventually."

I nod, my eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of his embrace. I feel, incredibly, safe. Even my body's uncontrolled behavior doesn't embarrass me any more.

Which doesn't mean I don't get nervous when some time later (just a minute or much more? did I doze off?) House extricates himself from our embrace, sits up and pulls on his jeans again. I miss his touch immediately.

"I can't be in bed all day. Take your time in getting up and call if you need me, I'll be in the kitchen."

It's four fifty-one. "Isn't it early for dinner?"

"I'm not going to cook."


	11. Chapter 11

_Sorry for the long break, this chapter was more difficult to write than I expected. Please remember: this fic is meant for mature readers._

* * *

><p>I spend the rest of the afternoon in my room, part at my laptop and part on the stationary bike I banged into yesterday on first entering the room - "a present from a friend", according to the short braille note taped to the seat.<p>

I sweat profusely and get tired way too fast: I have lost a lot of muscle mass, and I should start exercising. There's something that I almost feel like doing under the shower, but then I recall House's comments and decide to wait.

I'm almost done blowdrying my hair (I know I can't see what I'm doing, but it feels comforting to resume some old habit anyway) when he calls that dinner is ready.

* * *

><p>Dinner is not a big production like lunch has been, just a tasty soup and a light salad with crusty, sourdough bread. I even manage to help with the dishwashing, and afterwards we relax on the couch with a beer; it's like the old times except the TV has been replaced by jazz music, a group I don't know with an incredible female vocalist.<p>

"So what did you do this afternoon?"

"I was looking for a job, and I think I've found one."

Maybe his offers weren't so good, after all.

"So who's hiring you?"

"Oh, not a job for me. I have one already, starting next week. A job for you."

I can't believe my ears.

"House, I can't work. I'm blind."

"I noticed that. There's a support group for cancer patients and their families who have expressed great interest in having an oncologist willing to do telephone consultations, explaining possible side effects and giving advice on therapeutic choices, side effects, hospice care and so on. You would start as a volunteer but if it works it could become a paid job, although of course not in the same income bracket as Head of Oncology at PPTH."

I empty my beer, then put it down and think. I think hard. It's not like being a doctor, of course. But still, better than sitting home and listening to an artificial voice reading the news. Then I remember what info is still missing.

"How about you? What is the new job, and in particular where?"

The 'job' House found for me could be done anywhere in the US, in fact anywhere at all, so I can follow him, but I'm frightened by the idea of moving, of getting used to a new place which I never will see.

"It's at Trenton Polyclinic."

A small hospital, and it doesn't have a Department in either Diagnostics or Infectious Diseases. Is House going back to nephrology? My silence must sound like a question.

"Eight to one at the walk-in clinic, weekends free. I have a six months contract, and I may get a renewal if she chooses to stay at home with her baby longer."

"I don't understand. You never liked doing clinic, and now this? Couldn't you really find anything better? This is the kind of job a not too smart kid just out of med school could get."

"I... I did get other offers. Even," there's a pause, "offers from places I didn't apply to. But this was all I could get with a reduced schedule and within easy driving distance from Princeton." The pause is longer, now, and when he speaks again his voice is lower. He sounds embarrassed. "I had already chosen to remain with you if you wanted me. According to Cortes you'd be better off without moving for quite a while."

He has put his career on hold for me, maybe trashed it forever. The little nagging voice that has been bothering me so much tries to suggest that he could change his mind any moment, that the offers probably stay open, but I ignore it. This is the man I love, and who, in his own way, loves me back, even if he probably will never say it.

However, one of the most attractive characteristics of House is his genius as a diagnostician, something he will have no use for in this boring, routine job.

"What about your gift, House? The people only you can save? The job that was your life until you crashed that car?"

The first answer is a sigh.

"I know. For the moment I'll work as free-lance consultant. I always had plenty of requests, I'm sure I'll like it better now that the money will go to our bank account and not to PPTH as it used to."

"Our bank account?"

"We should open a joint one."

"House... are you serious?"

I gulp, struggling to find words and to keep my voice level.

"Should I really think of the two of us as a couple? Do you?"

"I told you I'll be there for you. I am not quite ready to put a label on this, but I'm not walking out. A joint account is just practical if we're sharing a household, you should of course keep your own as well."

I lean on him as the music continues; this time it's the Rolling Stones, House must have found the remote of my stereo. There's something else we need to discuss. Or at least start addressing, and what better moment than now, sitting so close together. I can't think of any euphemism, I'm too scared.

"How about sex?"

"Always an interesting topic. If you want we can share my list of phone number, all quality ladies at affordable prices. Self-abuse is fun, but in the long run not quite enough."

"House, I..."

Suddenly there's warmth all around my shoulders, and across my chest. It takes me longer than it should to realize I'm held in House's arms.

"Of course I didn't mean it. I had enough time to think of this while you were still hospitalized. I even discussed it with Cortes."

"What did she say?"

He takes long before he answers, but he holds me tight so the waiting isn't unpleasant.

"Cortes said that we've been so close over the years that living together shouldn't be a problem, if we both want it. Sex, on the other hand... she said many longterm relationships are sexless because the partners aren't a match from that viewpoint. She said we won't know until we try."

"Did she have any opinion on what our chances are?"

"She said you're so sexy she'd be surprised if it doesn't work." House laughs. "No, she didn't, although she looked a bit like she thought it. She said we should take it slow and have low expectations." House pauses. "What is it you want, Wilson?"

"I don't know. Your same sex experiences may go back to college, but I never had any. I just know that I find you attractive."

I remember that he already knows this; the recollection of how precisely he noticed is enough to cause discomfort in my briefs.

"How about we pretend we're teenagers and just fool a bit around?"

The couch moves as his weight shifts, and there's the tickling of scruff on my face, lips touching mine, and he opens his mouth and so do I because I can't separate our lips; his tongue licks mine gently, then explores inside me while he presses our upper bodies together.

I thought I was fully hard but the bulge in my pants grows some more, and I have to quickly reposition it, giving it just a tiny squeeze before letting go. And then the unthinkable happens and a hand that's not mine unzips my slacks, four fingers of warmth seep through the front of my briefs, pushing ever so slightly, then giving one determined, slow and powerful stroke all the way from the tip to my balls; when the fingers make contact with my glans again and lightly squeeze I lose control, wave after wave of pleasure washes over me - and I can't even cry out loud my pleasure and my shame since my mouth is still full of House, who holds me locked in a kiss that's clearly determined to outlast the earthquake going through me.

Once my shivers have abated House lets go of me; he softly caresses my hair as I pant, gasping for air, while the sticky goo on my crotch slowly cools. I'm glad I can't see myself, but he can. I'm as ashamed as I was at fifteen when my mother confronted me about the recurring stains on my bedclothes - that's where my shower habit comes from, and I should have kept it and avoided this mess.

"Thank you."

I probably look confused. House gives me a small kiss on the lips.

"You took my suggestion to behave as teenagers quite literally, didn't you?"

"House, I'm ashamed enough without you making fun of me. Let me go have a shower, please."

"Want me to come along?"

There's no mockery in his voice but I start shaking my head even before I answer.

"No, please don't. I need to be alone. To think."

In fact my plan is just the opposite, to avoid thinking as long as possible. I'm frightened by how pleasant it was, by the depth of my longing for his body and for a shared physical pleasure, and I want nothing more than to forget, however briefly.

* * *

><p>The warm water has made me feel better and more relaxed, and I use the blowdryer just to get ready faster. It's been a long day and I need to sleep soon. When I enter the bedroom I hear someone turning pages.<p>

"What are you doing here? I want to go to bed."

I hear a book, or maybe a magazine being closed and put away. And the soft "click" is probably due to the reading glasses being folded away.

"Great, go ahead. I still need to read a bit, the fact I'm between jobs doesn't mean I don't get to keep up with the medical literature."

I slowly realize where his voice exactly comes from.

"House... are we going to sleep in the same bed?"

"That's what people who are together usually do. It didn't seem to be a problem last night."

"I... I don't know." I get in bed, but keep my distance. I'm embarrassed again. "Aren't you angry at me? Or disgusted?"

"Because you like me? Of course not. I knew it and I chose to stay. I hope we'll be able to find pleasure in each other in many ways."

I pull all my courage together to ask the next question. Because I owe it to him, although the answer scares me. "How about you? Is there anything I can... do for you?"

"Not now, I'm halfway through a paper. And you look really tired, you should be sleeping soon."

He's right of course. As I lie down I don't even feel like listening to a few minutes of my audiobook. I just close my eyes and drift off, but not before admitting to myself that the faint sound of page turning makes me feel loved much more than any love declaration ever did.


	12. Chapter 12

I wake up rested and happy, the sun warming my back. I stretch myself and open my eyes - and I remember. I can't see, although I know it's light. I hate the mornings when I remember this way.

But then I notice a very, very light snoring. I smile - it's nice to have a warm, purring body in my bed again. Like Sarah, House could keep me at a distance but chooses not to. I wonder whether he snores so lightly because his nose is so cute. As a doctor I know this doesn't make sense, but I'm overwhelmed by the desire to see his nose, and unlike the blue of the eyes, this is something I can touch.

I turn around and start searching. My fingers first land on his forehead, but from there it's an easy step to the nose. Still as cute as ever.

"Wilson, what are you doing?"

"Morning. I...I just felt like looking at your nose." It sounds completely idiotic. But House doesn't get angry, or mock me. "Sorry for waking you up. Were you reading until late yesterday?"

A yawn, then rustling of sheets and the usual plastic-swallow-plastic sounds.

"Yes. Don't wake me up like that again or I could reconsider my choice."

"Of staying here or of sharing my bed?"

"Of letting you sleep without handcuffs on." His laughter makes the sun seem even warmer. It must be a beautiful day.

* * *

><p>As I wait for House on a chair in front of the cafeteria entrance, my white cane between my legs, I think back of this very long morning. The visit at PPTH went well, medically; the post surgery check up was perfect, and Dr. Yu gave me a huge package of information about the trial I should take part in. She told me I'll have to go to New York twice a week, but the rest of the training can be done at home. I'm a bit scared at the idea of such a trip alone; luckily it's not too soon. The huge folder with the current results was not available in braille, and House snatched the printed copy away.<p>

Psychologically, it was not so great. The best moment was the brief meeting with Cortes, while House "went to say hi around". She laughed when I thanked her, saying that House's apology to her was worth much. Then she got serious, and said she discussed my case with my therapist, and I need to work on the roots of my problems; probably not at PPTH though.

She knew about the letter I received and had already been quarreling about it with some people at HR, and said I could expect a written apology by the Dean soon. However, this doesn't change the fact that I'm sacked. She gave me name and address of a psychologist specialized in treating patients with traumatic blindness, but insisted that my recent handicap is not the only thing I need to address.

Everything else is going on well. My braille reading is better than they expected, and they recommended that I both keep up the stationary bike training and start walking out with the cane. As I sit on the familiar chairs I wonder whether really no one I know is going by, or whether they don't know what to say to me and just slink away. I'm suddenly happy when I recognize the rhythm of House's limping approach.

"Hi. Sorry it took so long."

"Hi. Did you manage to find everyone you wanted?"

"More or less." House sits near me, his hand on my left knee. I hear passing people stopping their steps, then resuming them.

"Want to eat here or go home?"

"I'm not so hungry right now." My stomach's actually a bit clenching at the thought of having to talk to my former colleagues. Or worse to be watched by them.

"Let's go then. It's no fun stealing your fries if you can't see me do it anyway."

* * *

><p>In the end we grab a couple of sandwiches at the deli at the corner, and go for a long walk along one of the paths in the woods; it's nice to hear just birds singing. We meet a group of people walking in the opposite direction; they say hi quickly, but I can hear behind me children's voices.<p>

"I like the cane with the flames better!"

"Me too. But the guy with the white one was cuter."

Apparently House heard them, too. "I should follow those disrespectful girls and teach them some manners," he grumbles. "Although they're right. Careful, there's a bridge."

He brings my hand to the rough wooden railing. I walk on carefully, sun and wind in my hair and the merry sound of flowing water below my feet. I bump into something. Someone. Someone tall and with a scruffy beard, with one arm curling around my back, just above my midsection, while a hand pulls my chin forward and up, until my lips meet his. This time I'm careful not to put my weight on him; rather, I allow him to lean on me a bit, as our kiss lengthens and deepens.

"I'm not into hand-holding, but I think I could get used to this." He laughs. "Although now I'm a bit disappointed that you didn't react as enthusiastically as yesterday. Let me try again."

I hear a cane fall to the ground as long fingers pull my shirt and undershirt out of my pants, than start roaming on my back. House's body presses on mine and this time my erection is clearly not alone. There's a weird sound and I wonder what kind of bird or other wildlife could be its origin until I realize it's me moaning deep inside my throat.

"I think we should stop, or I'll end up doing precisely what you found so impressive yesterday, except there's no shower nearby."

House lets me go, and does something I don't understand until I realize by the sound that he's now walking with his cane again.

"You're right. We should go home and lock the door."

I follow him, my heart brimming at the ease with which he said home.

* * *

><p>Walking back to the car takes longer than I had expected, as we start a very interesting discussion about when exactly an oncologist needs to be able to see, which continues in the car. With appropriate programs a lot of the information carried by bw images could be conveyed by tactile means - and I probably could hone my skills at physical exams. On the other hand, I would probably still need help with the MRI machine. But the rest of my job I could still do. Neither of us says it, but the hospital's decision to kick me out is terribly unfair.

By the time we park I'm sure House has forgotten about our original purpose completely. Once home he excuses himself to go to the bathroom, and soon I hear the shower going. I switch on my computer, vpn into PPTH to access medline, and start studying the articles I missed in the last weeks. If I want to go back to work eventually I need to keep up. I'm deep into a very interesting statistical study on prostate cancer in the elderly when the door to the bedroom opens and then closes again.

Two hands land on my shoulders, making me jump away from the screen, and a voice whispers in my ear "How fickle you are! Now you got your hands on the sexy body of Oncology Today and I'm completely forgotten."

I'm about to say that he was busy reading yesterday evening too, when his right hand starts unbuttoning my shirt, while the left explores my chest. When my right nipple gets tweaked I gasp and forget the laptop in front of me.

"House, what are you doing?"

His lips move away from what tomorrow will probably be a huge hickey on my neck.

"We had plans, and I didn't forget them. I think you're overdressed."


	13. Chapter 13

I stand up and face him, and he draws me in a tight embrace - and I immediately pull back once I notice he's damp and naked and erected.

"House, I... I may not be ready."

There's surprise and confusion in his voice. "I thought you wanted this. I do."

"I do, too. But there's something you need to know. it's a longish story."

I try to form a coherent explanation for something which has none. And I remember what Cortes said, too. I have no time to go to therapy; all I can do is tell the truth, and hope he can understand. He doesn't hug me anymore, but his hand rests warm and comforting on my shoulder. I decide to do the same, and shiver at the skin-to-skin contact.

"In my last year of high-school I had received both straight and gay porn as a joke present for my eighteenth birthday. I laughed, but I think some of my friends knew me better than I knew myself, since I found both magazine equally entertaining. My mother found them when tidying my room not many days later; I knew because the gay magazine was gone without explanation.

"That evening, my parents had a very serious conversation with me, after sending Danny to bed (my elder brother was away at college). They explained that gay sex was disgusting and painful and recently had been discovered to cause a particularly dangerous disease. They added that if I dated men openly I would never be considered a normal person, would have difficulties in my job and social life and may end up being made fun of or worse. Much worse. They made me promise."

There's no mockery in House's voice. Just sadness, and a hint of anger. I can only hope he's not angry at me. "They made you promise what?"

"That I would never be naked with another man."

I can't believe I managed to say this, and I'm left gasping for air. House's free hand finds mine, and he waits silently for me to resume talking.

"I promised, and they never mentioned it again. But they never forgot it either. I could read it in their eyes when I went to the gym, hear it in their anxious 'Is everything alright?' over the phone once I went to college. They paid for three weddings without hesitations, and when Amber died they were heartbroken."

While I'm talking he finds a way to drag me to the bed. Now I'm lying under the comforter fully dressed and sweating, while House is at least one foot away - which is not enough to make me forget he's naked. I think I can smell him.

"Wilson, you cannot feel bound by a promise extracted to you by incorrect information a quarter of a century ago."

Twenty-five years? I count in my head; House is almost right. And yet, it feels like yesterday. I can hear my mother's quiet sobs, my father's final "We trust you'll do the right thing, James. Don't disappoint us". More like twenty-five minutes, really.

"Had Dr. Cortes warned you about this?"

My therapist had extracted the truth from me, with a careful balance of direct questions and open-ended ones. She shouldn't have reported this to Cortes. But who knew?

"No. But she hinted that it might be more difficult than I expected."

'I'm sorry. Maybe we can go back to being just friends?"

House suddenly is very close. The warmth of his body seeps through my clothes, lights a fire in my lower belly.

"No. We go back to what we were doing on that bridge. You've kept your self-destructive promise long enough."

I don't fight as House undresses me, leaving just my briefs on. His will fights my parents', and I feel almost like a spectator. Like I'm dead, or in a coma; unable to take my own decisions. I'm angry and sad at the same time, because it;s clear that's what I deserve.

House, mysteriously, knows that; his hands don't further undress me, and cup my face instead.

"Wilson, I don't want to force you in any way. If you want, if that's what you really want, we can have a sexless relationship. In which case I'll need to go and jerk off somewhere soon, or I'll go as mad as you are. Just tell me if this what you want. Hand-holding and kisses? Be honest, Wilson. Please."

He's kissing me again, but not like a lover: more like a parent or a child, just his closed lips and his scruff exploring my face, determined apparently to make contact with every square quarter-inch of it, lingering on my eyelids. My father's face flutters in front of me, to be replaced by a long-forgotten memory of House happy before the infarction, smiling under the shower at the end of a hard-won badminton match. So handsome. So sexy, had I allowed myself to notice. Suddenly I know I can take my own decisions about my sex life.

"No. I want more. I want you."

I pull down my briefs, and my erection seems to bend towards him, as if by magnetic attraction. I draw a deep breath, and move my left hand. It soon finds House's hardness, and another hand circles around it, holds it in place. Moves it gently up and down, while fingers out of nowhere ghost on my own body.

Soon there's a weird sensation; a hand on my penis, and a penis in my hand, the movements so synchronized that I could be masturbating and yet I'm not. House kisses me passionately again and again, so much that I'll probably have whisker burn all over my face tomorrow, and the rhythm of his hand (of our hands) becomes faster, then frenzied. Our bodies are pressed against each other and the warmth and the smell are intoxicating.

House's mouth never seems to get enough of mine until my body explodes in pleasure; when I catch my breath again he moves his lips to my ear and whispers "Please Wilson, make me come too. You do it. Please."

No longer distracted by my own needs, I resume stroking; I've always been good at finding what another's body wants, and with another man it's even easier. The fact I can't see what I'm doing is irrelevant; touch and especially House's irregular breathing are my guides in this unfamiliar territory, and I'm not afraid of losing my way, of missing my goal. He writhes under my fingers until I grant him release. I keep holding him until the pulsations quiet down, licking his lips as he moans and pants.

It's only later, as he quietly wipes both of us clean, that I think back of what we just did and give it a name. I start shivering as he cleans me up, and I grow more and more restless until he grabs me in his arms, presses my face to his chest and wraps himself around me, holding me as if I were drowning. It's only then that I start crying. House says nothing, he just holds me for what feels like an incredibly long time.

When my tears are spent and my body is exhausted he lets go, but he still keeps his left arm under my neck and his right hand on my chest, spreading its warmth all over my ribcage.

I put my hand on his chest; his heart is calm now. I realize that I enjoy the feeling and there's no reason not to, so I keep my hand on him, too. Playing with someone else's chest hair is also a first time, and I find it very comforting. We both have other things to do, and yet we linger in bed together, quietly cuddling, until House needs to go get his pills.


	14. Chapter 14

"Yes, Mr Trinh, you can call again when you need. Just remember that you have to make an appointment first. No, there's nothing to pay, but you're welcome to make a donation to help defray costs, so that our foundation can help more cancer sufferers and their families and friends. I'll make sure you're sent details so you can make it tax-deductible. Say hi to your wife for me."

I put down the headset and check the time; I've been accumulating delays, so that instead of noon it's almost twelve thirty. It's hard to keep to a fixed time-frame when people have pressing, life-and-death question, and even harder to do so on the phone, but it's basically a part of my job and I know how to do it.

I just wish I had more time for it. The feedback, three weeks into my new "job", is overwhelmingly positive; I would like to volunteer for longer hours, but House insists that I shouldn't, that I need to have a real job eventually. We compromised, and I now work four hours per day, in the morning, unpaid for the moment since I'm still on paid leave from PPTH.

I haven't heard from them again, but House called HR for me and confirmed that they're planning to kick me out as soon as they legally can. I did get a very friendly phone call from the Dean, and he mentioned he hoped I could go back - and the next sentence was about my retirement party and an assistantship in my name as a goodbye present.

I find my cane in its usual place and head out for my daily walk. With my backpack, I can easily carry a small amount of groceries while my hands are free to hold the cane: daily fresh sourdough bread is a luxury I'm getting used to, and the bakery is near the library, with its collection of audiobooks and Braille texts.

It's weird what one can get used to. We wake up Monday to Friday at six thirty together; House prepares breakfast while I'm in the bathroom, since his own morning care was so much faster than mine even while I could see. He then drives my car to Trenton, while I sit at my laptop and keep in touch with literature or, occasionally, with my ex colleagues until it's time for my telephone counseling stint.

When House comes back we go out together; we walk if the weather allows or we just go sit somewhere and chat. Sometimes we stay home, especially when House has online consulting to do - nothing big so far.

We cook dinner together, or I prepare something simple while House consults, or House cooks while I use the bike. And we spend every evening together, usually listening to music but sometimes going out to bars, often those that offer musical entertainment or stand-up comedy. Recently I discovered the existence of DVDs with an extra descriptive soundtrack for the sight-impaired, so we can even enjoy some classical movie together.

And every night we share a bed. In the evening the warmth of his body and the quiet sound of his page-turning are enough to lull me in an easy, drug-free sleep; in case of nightmares, or when the alarm clock interrupts a dream to bring me from light to darkness, House's arms and mouth provide the best possible comfort.

I have therapy once a week, too, and so does he - in the same office and at the same time, so we can go together. I don't know what I find weirder, that I got used to this new life so fast or (I blush when admitting this to myself, and have never told House) that I'm happy with it.

* * *

><p>It's a wonderful fall Sunday afternoon. House and I woke up late, had sex, went for a very satisfactory brunch and we're finishing a walk through our favorite woods.<p>

We walk close to each other, as we always did, and occasionally stop for a chaste kiss and a hug. We do not hide while doing so, and I often hear comments of passers-by; they're usually neutral or, when they notice the canes, openly sympathetic. I feel very lucky living in an overeducated, liberal corner of New Jersey.

We sit at a table with benches in the winter sun, and I try to squint; I do notice that direct sunlight has a particular brilliance, or maybe it's the effect of the warmth on my face fighting with a light breeze. I pull out of my backpack a tablet of expensive European dark chocolate, a surprise from one of my solo shopping trips, and I let House have most of them; I'm the one doing regular exercise, but he's still thinner than me.

When we're done eating, a hand covers my own. I expect a caress, but all I get is a cellphone. My cellphone.

"Time to call home, E.T. Speed dial 9, in case you forgot."

Not only have I not come out to my parents about House and I being a couple, I still haven't told them that my blindness is permanent. I found all sorts of ridiculous excuses, like my father's (very routine) post-heart attack care, but now Thanksgiving is approaching.

"Later, when we're home? I think I'm catching a cold."

"I'm a doctor, Wilson. Call already. They have a right to know, and waiting won't make it easier."

I listen to the free signal, half-hoping they won't pick up so that I can just leave some greetings. No such luck.

"Hello, James. High time you called. Still vacationing?"

"Mom, I'm on sick leave."

"Same difference. Your dad is also supposed to be recovering from the infarction, and he's more active than I've seen him in the last two years. When do you start working again?"

I bite my tongue so as not to mention that this is probably due to his being bored out of his wits by her harassing him about his medication.

"Mom, I… it's not clear I'll get my job again."

"What?"

"Mom, I told you I couldn't see, right?"

"Yes, something about your lazy eye. Did they find you the right glasses?"

"No, mom. There are no right glasses. My lazy eye will never see more than shadows, and the retina of the other is gone." I pull a deep breath. "I'm blind, mom."

I've agreed with House that it's better not to mention the experimental program yet, also because I've still been unable to find braille data about its success rate.

There's silence at the end of the line, and when she speaks again her voice tone is completely different. It's the one she uses when discussing Danny.

"James, wait. I'll call your dad, and put him on speakerphone. Then you can repeat what you just said, since I must have misunderstood."

* * *

><p>In the end it wasn't even so bad. They didn't say it was my fault; probably they feel guilty, although it's definitely not their fault either. My mom no longer pressed me to visit; instead, she insisted that she and dad come here to see me. They expected to stay with me at the condo, and I had to admit I moved out and I don't have a guest bedroom anymore; I'm sure they won't like my new place, so much more modest than the old one. We finally agreed that they'll call again after they discuss the trip with my father's cardiologist.<p>

I didn't say I don't live alone. I did mention that "some friends" were helping me cope. I wait for House to complain and be angry but he doesn't. He just makes me notice the sun is setting and it's getting chilly, and when we stand up to go home and I grasp for my cane he hugs me tight before pressing it into my hand.


	15. Chapter 15

I know that House cannot come with me; his contract doesn't allow him to take time off. Leave has to be justified by illness (confirmed by a hospital-approved doctor) or it's cause for termination.

Still, I wish I wasn't doing this first trip to New York alone. I'm afraid of what they'll tell me. What if they test me and decide I'm not able to join the experiment? And how will I even manage to get there safely? It's one thing to walk around with my cane in the quiet, well-known streets of Princeton, and another to step out of the train at Penn Station and start searching the taxi stand.

As I sit and worry, ignoring the buzzing of my audiobook and the noise of the train, my cellphone vibrates. I answer hoping it might be House, wanting to wish me good luck. Not really hoping, it just would be so great. "Dr. Wilson speaking."

"Hi, here Remy. I'll pick you up at the station and go with you to the hospital; get down from the train and wait for me, I'll find you."

I thank her and send my greetings to Sandy, but I know who I have to thank for this.

* * *

><p>"So, how was your first trip all alone without mom?"<p>

"Fine. Thanks for sending Thirteen."

"She volunteered. Did she go back to the station with you?"

"No, she had to work; Sandy picked me up and brought me to the station again. She almost lifted me on the train."

"Even lesbians can't completely resist your appeal. I should have known when she still hadn't slept with you after the first month of being your secretary. I hear they accepted you in the program."

"Yes. And I now know what the purpose of the whole experiment is."

"To improve your vision."

"House. You knew this, didn't you?"

"I thought it would be better if they explained. Didn't want to make mistakes."

There are no voices in the train nearby, no loud breathing. I hope I'm alone, but I don't really care. This can't wait until I'm home.

"You knew the aim: to recover visual sensitivity, like distinguishing movement, colors. They say by the end I could be safe walking around, much better able to care for myself and possibly to recognize people I know well. Some people even manage to read again using large fonts and magnifying glasses, but it's very rare. Chances that I'll be reading an x-ray or performing a biopsy again: zero."

"I never told you you could work like before."

"You knew."

The phone sighs so loudly the whole wagon must hear it.

"I did. I never lied to you, but I hid the truth. I discussed with Cortes and she asked your therapist. She said you already had enough to deal with, and that a delay would be beneficial."

We have our appointments tomorrow, although our regular meeting would be in three days. Supposedly the change of plan was due to House's therapist having a dentist's appointment. How come I didn't suspect it was meant as a chance for me to discuss immediately how small my actual hopes were directly after my New York trip?

"You still there, or did you jump down from the train?"

"No, I'm still there."

"Do I have to sleep on the couch tonight? I'll need booze in that case. And porn."

"No, of course not." The thought of sleeping in a bed that doesn't contain House is positively frightening. When did that start?

"Good. I'll meet you in Princeton Junction in forty minutes."

House never says "See you" or "We shall see", but I still notice where the offending verb could have been. Like the delay in learning the trial's purpose, it's probably better so, but it's not good.

* * *

><p>I try again to concentrate on the research article I'm supposedly reading, but I fail. I'm too nervous; I stand up and start pacing the room in every direction. When I felt like that I always used to do household chores; I found it relaxing and loved the easy feeling of accomplishment. But that's one of the many features of a life that is gone. I already burned myself while ironing and ruined one of my favorite shirts by washing it at the wrong temperature.<p>

It's raining hard, not the right weather for a blind man to go out - the darkness makes it harder for drivers to see me and my cane. I finally remember the stationary bike, but I don't listen to an audiobook as I usually do: I need to think.

Now that I know how much vision I can hope to get back, House arranged an appointment for the two of us with a lawyer to check whether it makes sense to try and fight PPTH's decision to terminate my tenure and my contract. He did most of the talking, but the lawyer had a number of questions for me, and I'm now trying to find the answers while House is busy with an urgent Skype consult: I can hear his voice through the closed door.

Do I even want to go back to work as an oncologist? There's a lot I can still do, despite what HR thinks; I would just need help for reading scans and x-rays. I miss work; at least I miss healing those I can, and making life longer and easier for the many I cannot heal. The lawyer seemed convinced I can force them to take me back, if I want, and that HR is just trying to kick me out of my job, hoping that I will rather not fight.

Which would have been the case, hadn't it been for House. As I discovered in the lawyer's office, during our last visit at PPTH he was actually collecting material for a possible lawsuit, and gauging how a request of mine to reconsider the termination of my contract would be viewed by the board.

He must have called in some very old favors; more surprisingly, he got positive answers from at least two board members that he used to be hardly on speaking terms with. In the car I asked him how he had managed, and he mumbled something about the advantages of a humble attitude.

Economically it would make a lot of sense, of course; House wouldn't even have to work at all, or could just consult whenever he feels like it, maybe even for PPTH. I'm more worried about how going back to work would make me more aware, if possible, of everything I've lost, of the difference between my life Before and my live Now. House said I should discuss this with my therapist, and he's probably right.

I get down from the bike and start exercising on our fitness machine, a joint present from Sandy and Remy that was delivered last week. When I phoned to thank them Sandy laughed and said they both want me to be top fit at the wedding. They did send us an invitation card in braille, it was in the post today.

Us. Me and House. What will we do at the wedding? Behave as friends, or more? There will be enough PPTH personnel to bring the news back to Princeton, whatever we do.


	16. Chapter 16

It's the first wedding where I can't see the bride. Either of them, actually. It's also the first time I don't dance, and I can't help moving my feet to the music as the orchestra starts my favorite waltz.

"You don't have to sit here and keep the cripple company, you know."

"I can't very well go around and ask pretty ladies to dance either."

The next sentence is loud enough to be heard over music by the small orchestra.

"Hey, you brides! My boyfriend wants to dance!"

So much for the question of what to reveal; I feel my cheeks reddening but I can't hear any nasty comments, so maybe no one else heard - as usual, House had found a quiet corner for us.

As I hear Sandy and Remy approach, chatting and laughing, I can even guess their white outlines, although I can't tell who's who and only know they're wearing identical white tuxedoes because I asked Sandy earlier. Finally they stand in front of us, Sandy's hand on my shoulder, and I can almost hear her smile when she talks to me.

"You better dance with Remy. She's used to lead."

More laughter as I stand, and dancing turns out to be surprisingly easy - and I'm the one leading, with Remy only warning me when I'm on collision course with someone else. This feels so good, so normal. For a moment I'm almost nostalgic of how supple and light a woman's body feels, luckily that's when the music ends.

She's still leading me back to my seat when the music starts again - something slow and romantic, the kind of thing meant for low lewd whispering in each other's ear, bodies close, barely moving. I used to be good at this, and now it's gone.

"May I have the honor?"

My hand is now held by House's strong fingers. He doesn't even pretend to wait for an answer but pushes our bodies together - and suddenly I realize that, however good a woman feels, she's not what I want because no woman is House. I hold onto his shoulders while his left hand moves to keep the small of my back close to him - the right is still on the cane, of course.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"I shouldn't overtax my leg, but this is like walking slowly."

I don't know how to say this, but I have to; it's maybe still possible to pretend we're joking.

"If they see us dancing together, what are people going to say? I'm okay with openness, but are you sure you want everybody to know?"

The sudden pressure takes me by surprise; I manage not to fall on House, but I end up squeezed against him, and he takes the occasion to kiss me in a way that cannot be explained away as a joke.

"Let them talk," is all he says before he resumes dancing as if nothing had happened.

I relax in his arms and use the opportunity to enjoy the feel of his suit, the contrast between the silk of the tie and the scruff just above it, the starched cuffs and the strong fingers gripping the cane. How I wish I could see him.

* * *

><p>"My mom called yesterday."<p>

House's voice, near me on the couch, is devoid of emotion. Which is his way of communicating there's something he finds hard to say.

"If she wants you to go visit for Christmas, we can hire a nurse. No problem."

I hope my face doesn't betray my thoughts. I have been thinking about this before, and I know what is right. Being without House will be unpleasant, but I can manage. I've already taken away too much of his freedom.

"I'm not particularly eager for a trip to Kentucky, but she wants to be with me. I thought she could come and spend a long weekend in New Jersey instead, after all she doesn't have work commitments."

I realize that House will have the same problem I have. Unless he told her already?

"Sure. When did you want her to come?"

"How about in three weeks?"

I count the days twice. Can House have forgotten?

"No, that's when my parents are coming."

I can clearly hear his chuckle.

"Perfect. We get all the annoying part over in one go, plus she gets to meet your parents and vice versa. Win-win."

If I could I'd stare at him in disbelief; I hold his shoulders with both hands and turn his upper body so our faces are close. I try to focus my lazy eye following the instructions, and I think I can guess the outline of his face, almost see where his eyes are. Or maybe I'm imagining it because I desperately need to meet his gaze now.

"I understand social niceties aren't your strong suit, so let me be very clear. A dinner with both sets of parents is not how you come out as gay, that's how you announce an engagement. And I didn't even dare doing that after the first divorce, I was too ashamed."

Now he laughs, sounding very nervous.

"I sure hope you're not ashamed of me."

His tone is warm and merry and scared, and I suddenly get it, as a shiver runs through my back.

"Is this a proposal?"

"I can't very well kneel, and I don't like jewelry. Yes."

The final syllable is the one that breaks me. I hold tight on his shoulders, because I'm afraid to sink to the floor otherwise.

"You... you can't be ready for that."

His arms surround me, and I find my whole upper body pushed against his, my forehead resting briefly on his lips, then on soft stubble, so I can both hear his voice and feel its vibrations. I allow my shoulder and back muscles to rest when I notice they hurt.

"Interesting. You didn't say _you_ aren't ready."

He sounds definitely chipper now. Because of what I didn't say. Because I am ready, if he is.

"House, it took Stacy almost one year to talk you into meeting her parents. And you made it clear marriage wasn't an option."

"Reminding me that I'm dating a friend of my ex won't be enough to make me change my mind."

"We have barely started our relationship. What's the hurry?"

The answer comes after many more kisses.

"There's no point waiting when one knows what one wants. Stacy, since you made comparisons, moved in after a week. I've known you for twenty years almost, I don't need any more time."

"That's a good reason for staying together, but why marriage?"

This time the kiss is long and passionate, and his hands frame my face, fingertips brushing my eyebrows, thumbs close under my chin.

"I could say I talked to my lawyer. Our lawyer. Marriage gives many more advantages than whatever bunch of contracts we can draw. But it's not that, or not just that."

I don't speak. I wait.

"I could say I talked to Thirteen and Sandy at the wedding. They told me how hard it is to get accepted as a same-sex couple. How being married barely gets you the level of respect and belief straight couples get when they move in together, if that. She said our past of heterosexual relationships would make it easier for our families to pretend this is just a phase; marrying makes things clearer."

I wait. Longer.

"It would be true, but it wouldn't be the whole truth. I want to marry you because I want to wipe even the memory of all the Mrs Wilsons. I want everything they had, on top of what they never had: your full, unconditional love."

"You... you're jealous of my ex-wives?"

"I can't stand the idea of anyone not knowing that you care for me much more than you did for any of them."

I don't try to deny the fact, because it's true.

"We'll do things at a speed we're both comfortable with. I want you to know I'm ready, whenever you are. Let me know soon, we can always have my mom visit the following weekend."

My throat is parched, my heart galloping. House takes my left hand and gently moves it towards his face. I am learning to read his expressions by touch; now he's serious, concentrated. Surprisingly sure of himself.

"How can you be so sure?"

"The difficult part was when I sat down with Cortes and discussed your condition. The blindness, the depression, the alcohol, the suicide attempt, your love for me. She said I was in a unique position to help you. She added that I could also hurt you much more than anyone else, possibly beyond repair. That if I wasn't sure I could stay I'd better keep away. I had full days in that damn jail-like place to think about you, about us; it was probably the hardest decision in my life. In comparison, the decision to marry you is straightforward."

My hands are still on his face when he tilts my chin up.

"Look at me, Wilson. I know you can figure out where my eyes are. I want to marry you because I want us to spend the rest of our lives together, making each other happy, and if you agree I want everyone to know it."


	17. Chapter 17

I can't believe we're doing this, and yet here I am, writing an email to my parents to let them know that my friend Gregory House who's been taking care of me so far and living with me is my boyfriend, and his mother will be visiting when they are.

House has already called his mom about it, but I feel more comfortable writing. This way if they shout I can't hear them. As I hit send, I feel surprisingly relieved. As if everything got a bit simpler. I should thank him, but he's too busy — a standard email consult has turned into an urgent online one, and he hinted he may spend most of the weekend skyping and checking medical literature. He even got Chase, Taub and Foreman to help run a DDX over some kind of virtual whiteboard.

This has happened before, and funnily enough, I don't mind; it's an occasion to take care of myself and of him, too, making sure he eats at regular intervals and gets a minimal amount of sleep. They're good moments, in which I feel like myself again.

* * *

><p>I wake up as House joins me in bed. It's one am.<p>

"How did it go?"

"So-so. Diagnosis could have been faster, but it won't make a real difference; we can't heal genetic diseases, only treat them. The patient's life will be longer and better, but I wouldn't sell him a ten-year mortgage."

He's hugging me tight now, his body still tense. I touch him and find his leg cramping; I work on it until I feel the muscle relax, then press my body all along his.

When I kiss his face I can feel tears.

"What's going on?" I'm scared. "Is the patient a child? Someone we know?"

"No, and I'm not really thinking about him either. I'm just tired. Oh, and I think I need new reading glasses for computer use and a larger monitor, when I stare at that pathetic little screen I strain my sight so much it makes my eyes water. Leave any other questions for tomorrow, please, I'm so tired."

I do as he says; he certainly has missed sleep last night, and tomorrow is Monday and his day job waits. This is really too much, I think. I _have_ to go back to work, so he can take it easy.

* * *

><p>When he comes home Monday afternoon he's exhausted. I had planned on talking to him about our work choices, but I can't. We end up early in bed instead, and I give him what comfort I can, while he lies down, his eyes closed. My wives used to enjoy my oral abilities, and despite the anatomical differences so does House. I was very insecure at the beginning, but he patiently taught me what he likes. It's a great choice when he's too tired, or too much in pain from his leg. Or both, like today. He falls asleep while I clean him up. I remain awake for a while, listening to his breath going in and out, thinking. Thinking.<p>

* * *

><p>By Wednesday he's recovered enough, and I want to get this out of the way before our parents arrive in little more than a week. They're all coming, and no one has had extreme reactions; my parents' email was a bit formal but definitely polite.<p>

It's as we sit together on the couch after dinner that I broach the topic of our respective work futures.

"You've been overworking yourself."

My fingers slide over his body. He always was thin, but now I can feel too many bones, muscles and sinews clearly defined by the absence of subcutaneous fat.

"Overworked _and_ undernourished. You can't go on like this."

"We need the money."

His tone sounds wrong. Like there's something he's not saying.

"Because I'm not earning enough, right? I'll get my job back. Even with a pay cut it will be enough for both."

It's true, and yet he doesn't answer for a while. His cellphone rings that he has a message, and I can hear him checking it.

"I'm sorry, I think I have another consult question to answer. Don't wait up."

He limps away to the laptop, leaving me alone to wonder what he would have answered. I try to imagine the flow of his thoughts, and it suddenly hits me: since we started our relationship I've been completely, totally self-focused. I never tried to think of what he may need or wish for.

Once I finally take the right point of view my mistake seems blatant. Of course he doesn't like the idea of staying at home - the fact he's willing to marry me doesn't make him my goddamn wife. And even Sam, when we had our desperate rekindling of romance, made it clear she would never consider giving up her career.

And yet... how much can he really care about his current job? At PPTH he hated clinic hours with a passion, and now he doesn't even have the hope of getting an interesting case — if he finds any it would be passed over to a higher-level hospital.

House has given so much thought to my comfort and happiness, and I've completely ignored his, busy as I was dealing with my losses, and our new life together. Time to change this. I find myself happy that he's busy, since I have a lot to muse about.

* * *

><p>It's Saturday morning again, and not one minute too soon. House has been working almost non-stop on his consult from Wednesday evening to Friday night, or rather Saturday morning, since it was past midnight when news finally came from Arizona that his diagnosis had been confirmed.<p>

I've managed to get up without waking him, and now I'm sitting and thinking, trying to tie together my reflexions of the past few days. About who House is, what is important to him. This consult wasn't even for a big hospital; it's a charity institution treating people with no healthcare and no documents. I heard House's voice insist that he didn't need money, that he had a day job and that was enough.

He saved a nine year old girl, whose symptoms were masked by severe dehydration and heat stroke, probably due to illegal border crossing; when he finally made his way to bed he was exhausted, and yet I could hear triumph in his voice as he mentioned the incredibly rare syndrome he had managed to identify across a continent.

House loves his job so much he's willing to do it for free. House can save lives that would be lost otherwise. All stuff I used to know, and yet I have apparently managed to forget that House needs his patients as much as his patients need him.

House fought his family and kept somehow under control his own abrasive personality to get the job he had, and yet now he has a very different one, one he always disliked, and is reduced to do what he likes in the night, without a team or an office. He never even mentioned trying to get back his old job, or finding out about a new one... wait.

I force myself to go back in memory to those first, dark days; to remember. He had job offers as diagnostician, and yet he never even went for an interview. He was so busy—my heart sinks. He was so busy taking care of _me_. He accepted the clinic because it was less than half an hour drive away. He did it for me.

He has put his whole life on hold to get me back on track. It's time for me to do something for him. I hear his steps and the cane move in our bedroom; as I switch on the coffee-maker, I smile.

* * *

><p>"I have some homework to do with you. My therapist told me to."<p>

House sighs, I can hear his feet landing on the coffee-table in front of us, his arm wrapping affectionately around my shoulders.

"Every word of the Witch Doctor is law."

"We both have to list what is it we miss most from our lives before."

I can feel him tensing near me.

"Is that really her idea?"

Damn. I used to be good at lying, I need to make more of an effort.

"Yes. She said it's high time. I'll start: I miss cooking. Your pancakes are either burned or soggy. At least today the bacon was crisp enough."

"That's mean. Can I say I miss running? Lacrosse?"

"No. By before, she means before I was hurt. Because this is All About Me."

House chuckles.

"I miss riding my bike."

Surprising choice. "You could buy a motorbike again if you wanted."

"Yes. But I'm not likely to do it again, or not in the reckless same way. I can't, you know."

I nod. He can't risk his life anymore because he's seen what happened when I lost him.

"I miss choosing my suits, and especially matching my ties with my shirts."

House laughs so hard he has to stop and gasp for air.

"If I ever make a list of Stuff I'm Grateful For, this goes into places one, two and three."

I try to sound offended, but I'm not.

"I had impeccable taste. Your turn."

"I miss looking down Cuddy's cleavage." He's suddenly serious now, his hand holding my shoulder tight. "I miss Cuddy. She was a good friend and an excellent Dean, and," the hand tightens, his breath hitches, "and it was stupid for us to be together, I clearly couldn't be the man she wanted, no matter how hard I tried." He whispers now. "Christ, Wilson, I loved her so much, I even miss the brat a bit. I can still hear her little voice, calling me Scallywag. She really liked me in the end, I must have hurt her too."

I curl my right arm around his waist. He hasn't mentioned Cuddy since she called, so long ago.

"Everyone makes mistakes. Cuddy did, you did. I did, more than either of you."

We're quiet as we contemplate our mistakes, for a very long time. I wonder whether House knows I can hear him cry even if he doesn't sob. My answer comes as he takes my left hand and moves it so that my fingers touch his wet cheeks. I kiss him until he's dry, and we rest for a while quietly in each other's arms, exhausted with recollection and regret.

"Your turn."

"I miss my job. Not the paperwork, not the Board, and not the Clinic. But I do miss being able to care for my patients. I know I was good at it, and even when I couldn't medically help anymore, I could still be there for them. I'm as proud of the deaths I made more bearable as of the lives I saved."

"You could have that back, too."

"True. Not easily, but I could." I take a deep breath, and add "Not necessarily in Princeton, either."

House tenses again in my arms.

"What do you mean?"

"I could get a job elsewhere. One with less administration and more patient contact. Where I'd deal mostly with therapy, since I can't diagnose so well without my sight."

House doesn't reply. He's ever so slightly shivering now, in a way I wouldn't be able to notice if our bodies weren't so close. I pull him in my arms and kiss him, my fingers getting lost in his thinning hair. Finally he pushes away and breaths deeply.

"I miss my job and my team. Although that shouldn't count, since I lost both well before your accident."

I hold him close to me. I've gotten used to being blind, but in my dreams I can see, and my worst nightmares involve seeing a car crash, and a tall, lanky man limping away alone into the sunset. In the worst dreams it's the same accident which starts with he destroying his car and ends with me totaling mine and almost killing myself.

"It does count. You could have a similar job and team, right? Don't lie to me, House."

"Not in Princeton."

"Probably not in New Jersey. So what? We can move. We can try to get two jobs somewhere where they would want both of us. We don't even need adjoining offices, you know?"

I hold him so tight he's now talking directly into my collarbone, his voice arrives to me both through the air and through my own body.

"How would you deal with a new place, a new office, a new city? I'm sorry, Wilson, but you're legally blind. You know this place and the neighborhood so well you have no problem going around, but what if you move?"

"I'll learn to know the new place to. Plus, I'm making some progress in my program. They're optimistic I will be able to see enough that I don't stumble into things. I might even cook again, you know."

This time he holds me so tight my ribs hurt, with a passion we haven't shared in a while. We kiss and kiss and then he says "Bedroom" and I help him up and he leads me down the corridor. I have no occasion to tell him that what I miss most is the blue of his eyes.

* * *

><p>It's afterwards, when we lie down sated and relaxed, that he finally asks.<p>

"You really would be willing to move? To start again somewhere else?"

"I have many good memories in Princeton, but also some spectacularly bad ones, starting with your infarction. We can make good memories for ourselves elsewhere, together."

His right hand is playing with my chest hair, getting distracted by my nipple. If he goes on like this we'll not be talking long. I feel like a teenager all over again. He kisses me before he speaks again.

"So when can I start job hunting?"

He tweaks my nipple harder so that I almost scream, while the his pianist fingers work their magic two feet lower.

"Whenever you want, so long as it isn't right now."


End file.
